


New Routine

by SloanGreyMercyDeath



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, I am a summer person, My first winter attempt, Pancakes, Shootweek18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath/pseuds/SloanGreyMercyDeath
Summary: Root and Shaw are together, but they don't live together. Root wants more, but she thinks Sameen doesn't.





	New Routine

Every day, after she wakes up, but before she opens her eyes, Root panics. She holds her breath and stills her body and strains her ears. Root listens for the rhythmic breathing, the quiet snore, the soft slither of legs against sheets. When she believes that Sameen is behind her, the air in her lungs escapes and she sinks into the bed.

The sound of an ambulance racing passed her window is louder than it should be and Root remembers the open window. It doesn’t bother her enough to get her out of bed, so she pulls her feet under the large, wool comforter with a few pulled stitches and several fleece patches. It will be a few minutes before she can feel her toes and she rolls over.

Her cotton pajamas slide against satin with a scratch and Sameen’s hand fumbles toward her. Root considers helping, but instead, she curls into a ball and waits. For a minute, there’s only the sound of fingers on sheets and Sameen’s still-rhythmic breathing. Root sucks in air through her nose and admires jet black hair fanned out over baby blue sheets.

Hands as hot as fire slide beneath her half-buttoned shirt and her muscles clench involuntarily. A breeze blows in from the open window, shifting the jet black hair and pulling Sameen’s mouth into a frown. Root smooths her furrowed brow with a long finger and Sameen snorts lightly.

“Cold,” Sameen’s voice rasps like gravel. Her hand stretches against Root’s stomach. “Cold.”

Her lips are soft, but dry, when Root kisses her, pulling the patched comforter over their heads. Inside their toasty blanket cave, it smells like lavender soap and dry shampoo and Sameen. Their feet tangle together and a groan slips from Sameen’s pouting mouth. Root laughs and it’s all air, barely more than a happy breath.

Dark eyes try to blink open, cloudy with sleep. Root watches Sameen decide to keep them closed and smiles. Another soft, but dry, kiss and Root moves backwards. The comforter clings to her with static fingers, but her desire for a warm drink is stronger than her desire for a warm bed and she escapes into the crisp air.

She is almost silent on the cold, wooden floor, only the slight slap of sweaty feet betray her movement. The soft whisper of her cotton pants fills the apartment and a jingle lets her know that Bear is awake. His nails scrape against the floor as he stands and the familiar pattern of four feet let Root know he is coming to her. The open, almost empty, apartment feels bigger in the cold air.

She stops next to the kitchen island and squats to pick up the cold metal bowl they use for Bear’s food. Her knees and ankles pop with her first action of the day and the sounds are far too loud for the quiet chill. Another ambulance races by outside as she rises to her feet and puts the bowl on the island.

Well-trained, Bear sits on the other side of the invisible line that divides ‘living room’ from ‘kitchen.’ The wood floors have no boundaries, but Root winks down at the dog as she pulls open the refrigerator door. They are rich now, despite the patchwork bedding, and so Bear gets real meat and Sameen gets whole milk.

The plastic tape holding Bear’s food breaks with a snap and the smell of meat fills the kitchen. Sameen’s soft groan floats to her ear as Root drops the meat into the metal bowl with her hands and Bear’s pants get louder. Root knows Sameen thinks this meat is for her, but she woke up first and that means there will be pancakes for breakfast.

The metal bowl is set on the wooden floor with a barely-audible thump, Bear is allowed into the kitchen, and Root washes the raw meat from her fingers. The hot water stings against her numb skin. Root lets it wake her up, the world comes into focus, and she shuts the water off. 

The fridge opens with a squelch and Root jumps, surprised. Her chest is cool under her hand and when she turns around, Sameen is staring blankly into the bright light with her eyes closed. She shivers in the cold air, her bare arms covered in goosebumps. Root leans against the counter, feeling the countertop dig into her side and waits.

“Cold,” Sameen mumbles again, her word of the day. “Window.”

Root nods and crosses the kitchen floor. She nudges Bear aside, his paws clicking on the floor as his butt turns him 90 degrees. Sameen’s stomach is hot under Root’s hands as she wraps her arms around slim hips, her back is firm against Root’s front. Root drops her head to rest on Sameen’s shoulders and they take an inventory of food.

Sameen sighs loudly, her stomach rumbling against Root’s hands. “That smell was for Bear, wasn’t it?”

“We’re having chocolate chip pancakes,” Root answers. She reaches past Sameen to pull out the milk and smiles as Sameen’s eyes tracked its progress. “You want some?”

Sameen nods and steps away from Root, her physical affection limit reached. Root sets the plastic jug on the counter and pulls down matching mugs. The scrap of wood on wood fills the apartment and Root glances over her shoulder to see Sameen climbing onto a stool.

“Hot?” Root asks, keeping her voice low. The time on the stove said it was almost two in the afternoon, their normal waking time on a Sunday. 

Dropping her head onto her arms, Sameen grunts. That usually meant yes, so Root turns back to the counter and pours them mugs. Two minutes later, when she hands over the hot milk, Sameen drops from the stool and carries it into the living room. Root knows that in a second, the tv will turn on, its static will buzz in the cold air, and old samurai movies will begin to play.

She pulls ingredients down from the cabinets, comfortable in Sameen’s kitchen. Sameen turns on the tv, absently sipping her milk and flipping through channels. The pancake recipe, like this Sunday routine, is familiar to Root and it doesn’t take her long to maker her batter. The television screams as she mixes flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar.

Root squats, opening a cabinet, the hinges creaking from disuse. Sameen does not use the kitchen and Root is only allowed to spend two nights a week. She saves them for Fridays and Saturdays, choosing a slow weekend over rushed, desperate nights. She pulls out her favorite pan and stands.

“How much longer?” Sameen asks, not looking away from her movie. “I’m almost out of milk.”

Root laughs, turning the knob on the stove. It clicks before stuttering to life, the gas catching fire. The pan slides against the burner grate with a scratch and Bear’s ears prick up. Root drops a square of butter into the pan and moves back to her mixing bowl.

“Not too long,” Root finally answers. “What are you watching?”

“Zatoichi and the Chest of Gold. Not the best in the series, but any Zatoichi movie is great.”

Root just hums, adding milk to the batter and giving it a final stir. She takes the bowl to her pan, pouring small puddles and stepping back. The pancakes sizzle, the smell of bread and butter fills the kitchen, wafting through the apartment, and she sighs. 

This routine makes her happy, calms her after wild weeks, but she knows the whole thing teeters on thin wire. One too emotional comment and they don’t speak for weeks. A breeze blows through the window, carrying the sound of sirens, and Root pulls a spatula from a drawer.

The pancakes are done in minutes. When Root turns the burner off, the television goes silent and Sameen pads her way into the kitchen. A sharp clink echoes as Sameen drops her empty mug on the marble-island. Root watches her pull the fridge open, squinting into the bright light.

“I have the milk,” Root says, smiling. She picks it up, her fingers sliding through the condensation on the cool jug. “Here.”

Sameen takes it from her, the fridge closes with a thump, their fingers brush together. Sameen’s hands are warm, like always, and Root pulls in a breath through her nose, moving away. She’s in love and sometimes it’s hard, the domesticity reminding her of a dangerous life. The cabinet doors above the counter open with a soft squeak and Root pulls down matching plates.

The plates are hers, bought after a job at Macy’s, a matching set that she leaves here. They clink, like the mug, as she sets them in front of her. Sameen is pouring milk beside her.

They eat breakfast in front of the television, 5 pancakes for Sameen, 3 for Bear, and 2 for Root. They don’t talk. The television fills the silence, letting them eat in peace. The couch is long, long enough for them to sit at opposite ends and Bear to occupy the space between.

Root wants more. She finishes her food, puts her plate on the coffee table, gently nudges Bear off the couch. Sameen doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t look away from the tv as Root scoots closer, as she pulls her feet up, as she runs cold hands over Sameen’s bare thighs. 

She lifts her plate, though, giving Root the space to put her head down. They continue watch TV and Root wraps her arms around Sameen’s legs, her long legs stretching to cover the length of the long couch. She is pressed to Sameen, her fingers trailing over soft skin, but it is not enough.

Root rolls over, presses her face into Sameen’s sleep shirt, breathes in the smell of Sameen, the remnants of their laundry detergent, the leftover sweat of last night’s sex. A hand comes to rest on her hair and Root smiles. Her arms wrap around Sameen’s waist and she closes her eyes, her knees push against the back cushions, woven cloth scratching against cotton pajamas. She trusts that this is ok for now. Sameen is always vocal when overwhelmed by Root’s affections.

Sometime later, Root wakes, climbs her way to consciousness, breathes in the cold air. She is groggy, not sure when she fell asleep, and wondering where the sound of samurais went. The silent apartment smells like coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches. Sameen must have made food.

Sameen, Root thinks, panic rising in her throat. A second later, a hot hand comes to sit on her hair, slowly smoothing it down. It pushes a stray lock behind Root’s ear and Root can relax, tethered again by Sameen’s hands on her body. A moment later, she can smell her lover again, comforted by store brand deodorant and a hint of steel.

She is still on the couch, face now turned to the room, and something has changed. Root’s eyes stay closed, pretending to be asleep to drink in Sameen’s closeness and linger in this feeling. Their patchwork quilt covers her legs, heavy and warm. The pieces finally come together and Root wonders how Sameen made food, covered Root, closed the window, and they are still in this position. 

Root wonders how much of the day she’s lost, how much of her allotted closeness did she waste on sleeping? She blinks her eyes open, stretches her limbs, groans softly into the open air. Her toes point as she stretches, poking into the arm across the couch, and her arms reach forward, fingers grasping at nothing. 

To her surprise, Sameen doesn’t push her away, doesn’t make a comment, doesn’t try and stand. Root rolls onto her back, stares up at the back of a book. Sameen is reading Native Son, one hand on the book and the other wrapped around a mug. Her eyes slid off the pages, down to look at Root, and Root smiles fondly.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Root says, her voice rough from sleep. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven,” Sameen answers. She raises her mug to take a sip and Root watches her throat work as she swallows. “You slept until two and then slept another four hours.”

“Sorry,” Root apologizes, sitting up. Her hair brushes over her shoulders and she pushes it back. “I wasted the day.”

Sameen frowns at her, her eyes guarded and unreadable. “It’s fine. We don’t always have to do something. I know you work a lot. You needed the rest.”

It’s the truth, but Root is still disappointed. She sighs, climbs to her feet, and heads for the bed. The open floorplan means she can feel Sameen’s eyes on her the whole walk. Her feet pad against the floor, the noise shaming her. They spend so little time together, the weekdays keeping them apart, that to sleep away their precious hours seems like a sin.

Outside the apartment, a car horn honks and Root lifts her head to look out the window. The sky is still light, but a soft orange hue peeks around the tall New York buildings and she knows in an hour or so, Sameen will mention the time, night three will begin, and Root will leave to return to her own empty apartment. 

She starts to squat beside the bed, ready to pull her overnight bag from underneath the mattress, but hot hands slid under her shirt, holding her in place. Sameen’s firm body presses into Root’s back, warms her up, makes her feel better. Nimble fingers start unbuttoning the cotton pajama shirt and Root shivers at the contrast between hot skin and chill air.

When Root’s shirt is open, she turns to face Sameen, looks down into dark eyes. Sameen isn’t smiling, she rarely does, but her eyes have a familiar gleam, hungry and knowing. She licks her lips and Root dips her head, bringing their mouths together and kissing her lover. 

Sameen pushes her back and Root’s knees bump into the bed, her legs fold under her and she drops onto cool, satin sheets. Her legs open, making space, and her hands lift Sameen’s sleep shirt, run over hard abs, curl around soft curves. This routine is as comfortable as pancakes, but Sameen’s gentle kisses are new, dangerous territory. Root doesn’t know what they mean, doesn’t know how to process them, but they are sweet and slow and make Root’s stomach flutter.

Sameen’s knees lift, settle into the bed on either side of Root, her weight rests on Root’s lap and they are close enough to satisfy Root’s constant craving. She can do nothing, but wrap two long arms around one thin waist and pour her heart into long, languid kisses.

They kiss for what feels like forever, Sameen’s hands tangled together at the base of Root’s neck, Root’s hands tucked under the waistband of Sameen’s underwear. It is heaven and Root barely notices the light change in the apartment as the sun begins to set. Her body feels good, Sameen keeping her warm in the growing chill, the last of the sun’s heat disappearing under the windowsill.

After an eternity, Sameen pulls away, their lips sticking together, and she looks down at Root. Her cheeks are flushed and Root doesn’t know what to do. Do they continue forward like normal? Have rough, passionate sex that leaves her bruised and begging for more? Or do they try something new? Try and ride the wave of Sameen’s new tenderness?

“I love you,” Root says, surprising herself and Sameen.

The body under her hands tenses and Sameen’s soft curves become stiff like rock. She stares down at Root, blush fading and a hard, unreadable look replacing it. Sameen blinks and she slides off Root’s lap, steps back, creates a gulf between them.

“It’s late. You should go.”

The words are spoken and a switch is flipped. Suddenly, the apartment is dark, the only thing illuminating them is the streetlight outside Sameen’s building. Root feels like she’s lost the game they play, like she’s not going to hear from Sameen for months, like she’s going to have to apologize for her feelings again. 

She doesn’t, though, because it’s too soon. Instead, she stands and turns around, squats beside the bed again, this time pulling out her always packed duffle bag. For a moment, she stays down, looks into the haphazard clothing, thinks about changing out of her pajamas for the cold walk home. It would take too much energy and it’s been hours since she ate her pancakes.

Sighing, Root zips the bag shut, the metal sound echoing through the empty room, making Root’s heart ache with its final sound. She stands, holding the bag in her right hand. Root doesn’t even bother to look at Sameen as she walks to the door, just brushes past her, crosses the room with silent steps, stops beside her shoes, drops her bag. 

This is the hardest part of the week. Sitting on the floor, she pulls her socks from her boots, shakes them out, gathers one in her fingers. It takes her less than a minute to pull her thick, woolen socks on. Another minute and she’s tucking her pants into her boots, tying the laces and climbing to her feet. Reaching for her jacket, she pauses when it isn’t on its usual hook.

“Here,” Sameen says behind her.

Turning, Root grins. Sameen is dressed, somehow silent and speedy, wearing her own coat and hat. She holds Root’s jacket out and up, letting her slip long arms into long sleeves, and doesn’t let go until her fingers brush against Root’s neck. Root can feel Sameen’s eyes on her as she pulls her scarf from the pocket, wraps it around her neck, pushes her hands into leather gloves. 

Sameen slips into her boots, whistles for Bear, and picks up Root’s bag. She is going to walk Root home, another new action for the day. Root feels shaken as they walk out the door, as she locks Sameen’s apartment with a stolen key, as they start down the hallway in silence. Their rubber-soled shoes thump against hardwood floors.

She is unsure where she stands, where they stand, where New York City stands. When she woke this morning, her familiar panic greeted her like an old friend and it seemed like any other Sunday. Now, something has changed and she isn’t sure what’s going to happen. She reaches out to call the elevator, her finger sliding against the plastic button.

Sameen glances at her for a moment, before looking away again. The elevator comes and they step inside, still silent. This time, Sameen pushes the button for the elevator and Root leans against the wall, listening to the doors scrape against their frame as they close. The elevator jumps, like always, and begins its descent to the lobby.

“So, what are you doing tomorrow?” Sameen asks, her raspy voice loud in the old, cramped elevator making Root jump. She has never made small talk before, even after so long, and Root isn’t sure why she would start now. “Busy day?”

Root opens her mouth to answer, but the elevator chimes, announcing their arrival and the doors open again. She steps into the lobby, savoring the warmth as they walk down a dimly lit hallway to the street. She opens the door, sucking in the last of the hot air, and steps out into the freezing New York night, blinking into the artificial light.

Root loves the night, the loud vitality of a city in motion. Usually, she spends her short walk home watching the people around her and wondering about the lives they lead. Every car that speeds by is a mystery to solve and every person leaning against a storefront is a question to ask. Root enjoys creating her own New York City.

Tonight, she holds the door open for Sameen and Bear, then turns to the left and leads them onward. Their boots are quiet on the sidewalk, their breaths muffled by sirens and distant conversations. Root shoves her hands into her pockets, freezing, and regrets not changing into real clothing. Her mood is better now that Sameen is still with her, but the awkwardness of the new situation keeps her enjoyment to a minimum.

“Did you hear me before?” Sameen asks, pulling Root’s attention away from a bicyclist. “I asked what you were doing tomorrow.”

Root nods, shrugging. “Nothing too exciting. I have some computer work to do for a client.”

Sameen traces her eyes over Root’s face as they stop at a crosswalk. Two more blocks, Root thinks, that’s how long she has to muster the courage to ask what is happening. Bear sits between them and Root pulls a gloved hand from her pocket to pet him.

“Ok,” Sameen finally responds. “Not too busy.”

“No,” Root agrees. The light changes and they start across the street. “It’s a slow week, actually. Only three or four jobs. I already have the code for most of it. They don’t care if I recycle as long as it works.”

Their feet hit the next block and Root wonders if Sameen is fishing, if she’s trying to figure out whether they can spend another night together. Hope rises in Root’s throat and she pushes it down. There are no pancake supplies at her apartment, the plates they use are at Sameen’s, and Sameen will never volunteer more time together. Root’s surprised they’re still talking after she admitted her love.

The next block passes in silence and Root is cursing herself for not asking questions. The walk signal flashes at them as they get to the street and they step into the street without a pause. Root’s heart is racing and she is sure Sameen can hear it through her coat and over the noise of an ambulance racing past. Her hands sweat in her gloves and she wishes she were already inside so she could wipe them.

Root’s building comes into view and she stops at the base of the steps, looking up at the townhouse. She owns her home, bought it with cash, paid in full, and it feels too nice to live in alone. She has a fish with no name that sits on her desk and keeps her company, a pale replacement for her tanned girlfriend, but she takes what she gets, at least when it comes to love.

“Can I come in?” Sameen asks, adjusting her grip on the handle of Root’s bag.

Root stares at her with wide eyes. Sameen wants to come in to her apartment. They are so far from her comfortable, familiar routine that Root nods without thinking. 

“Sure,” she breathes. “Are you...spending the night?”

“You asked me to,” Sameen says, uncomfortable. “In your sleep, I mean. I...figured you probably wanted it awake, too.”

Root doesn’t answer as the blood drains from her face. She wonders how much she confessed in her sleep, how much Sameen now knows about her. Does she know that Root dreamt about them, together? That Root wants them to live together, be together, sleep together always? Root can’t believe that Sameen is offering to spend a third night together, in Root’s bed, that she is willing to break her own two-nights-a-week rule, that she is willing because Root wants it.

“I don’t have to,” Sameen snorts. She holds Root’s bag out for her to take. “If you want to keep to the two night rule, that’s fine.”

“No!” Root gasps, not taking the bag. “Three nights is great! Seven nights is great!”

Sameen rolls her eyes, dropping her arm, the bag hitting her leg with a smack. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s see how tomorrow goes.”

“Ok,” Root laughs, starting up her front steps, “but you’re making breakfast.”


End file.
